


Song of Sorrow

by TheHolosexualPan



Series: Witcher Fanfics [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Drabble, Heartbreak, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Not Beta Read, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Unrequited Love, no beta we die like jaskier's poor feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22682470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHolosexualPan/pseuds/TheHolosexualPan
Summary: But ah, what sweet melody the pain of heartbreak sings.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher Fanfics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646332
Comments: 11
Kudos: 106





	Song of Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> First work in this fandom :D (And of course it's angst, duh)
> 
> I find myself fascinated with how much they did my boy dirty in episode six so I expand upon it. I do love good angsty ships.

Jaskier wasn’t all too weird, not really. He was as normal as any human came, at least, relative to the world around him. When everyone had some sort of tragic background behind them, carrying a burden of darkness since they were too young to realise the weight of it would crush them, Jaskier did stand out, but not worryingly so. The stories that most people of noble birth had to share were either of heartbreak, political backstabbing or entirely fictional. He only had his dreams of travelling the world and Jaksier was happy.

And then, when he was old enough to finally take his life into his own hands, Jaskier left his family home - and his name - behind. Jaskier had wanted adventure, then, and freedom. He sure got the latter part of his wish when he left at sixteen to perform all the carefully taught melodies to a public that wouldn’t, couldn’t, appreciate his mastery of his artistry. The first half of that dream, though… That came three years later, embodied by a man with white hair, golden eyes and a stone-cold attitude.

Of, adventure sure did follow Geralt of Rivia around, or rather, the Butcher of Blaviken chased it with two very scary looking swords and a brooding face. And what Jaskier supposed to do,  _ not follow him around? _ Absurd, really.

And so he did. They travelled together for weeks before Geralt stopped trying to accidentally forget to wake him and leave without him at the first crack of dawn. It took months before he started slowing his horse down when they hadn’t rested for days and Jakier was this close to crawling through the dirt paths that were, occasionally, covered in snow or mud or other fluids that Jaskier prefers not to think about, thank you very much! 

It took years before Geralt stopped looking as though he was seconds away from running Jaskier through with his sword when he mentioned their shaky friendship. That one was still new. 

It took considerably less than years, or even months, and actually, though he wouldn’t admit it, it took not that many weeks to grow fond of the scary witcher, not that he’d ever been truly scared of him, because Geralt was intimidating, alright? But that was the charm! Where was the fun without the danger of travelling with someone who could kill you in considerably less time than it took him to blink?

But, ah, the problem was that fondness was not the only thing Jaskier started to develop for the White Wolf, no, reluctant though he was to admit it... 

He could have handled lust.

Lust was fun, a game of seduction, of passion, of a night filled with fantasies and all that dreamy stuff that Jaskier tried to replicate as explicitly as humanly possible in his songs, lust, he could handle.

But this wasn’t lust.

This couldn’t be lust, he found himself thinking, on some nights when they camped in the woods because Geralt had no standards, apparently. On nights when, while Geralt was staring at the fire or prowling around their campsite and Jaskier sat with his dear lute in his lap, plucking the chords mindlessly, Jaskier would follow him with his eyes, cracking the worst jokes possible when gold meet blue and hoping against all hope that Geralt couldn’t hear how fast his heart beat in his chest, or, if he did, he’d just think Jaskier was experiencing a heart attack. And Geralt would probably laugh at the idea, that bastard. 

Because, no, it wasn’t  _ just _ lust he felt when he looked at the witcher’s handsome, brooding face, or when he looked for a bit too long when he passed by while Geralt was bathing. It was the gentle stirrings of affection and of something Jaskier avoided naming like the plague itself.

But even though he wouldn’t acknowledge the love he felt and would do all he could to forget about it,  _ look at how he watches her, you’re just a friend to him and even that is questionable, look at yourself, there’s nothing special there, not like there is with her,  _ Jaskier couldn’t help but feel his heart aching whenever he smelled of the deadly combination of lilac, gooseberries and magic and knew that, were he to look at Geralt right now, he’d see his eyes soften the way they never seemed to do around him.

It fucking  _ hurt _ .

But that was ok, because if Geralt was happy, he’d be happy, and  _ he’s never smiled as much before as he does with her _ .

And so when he finally saw Geralt snap and realised just how little twenty years of companionship had meant to him, Jaskier just left. He didn’t cry that night. Couldn’t for some reason. He thought he might feel better if he did, it would be some sort of hormonal release, but no, he was left aching and dry-eyed. And his chest felt like it had been mauled and emptied.

And Jaskier realised, as he camped as far from the road down the mountain as he could without setting himself up to lose his way, with no fire, because it was a warm night, that he should have seen this coming. He wasn’t kind and he wasn’t smart and he wasn’t mysterious and he wasn’t strong. He was nothing like Geralt and he was nothing special. Completely normal, blatantly boring and unusually heartbroken when he should have  _ known _ .

But ah, what sweet melody the pain of heartbreak sings. 

**Author's Note:**

> Might write more of this pairing. I've been getting back into the fantasy genre recently and the world of The Witcher might just be what I needed.


End file.
